


A Winter Veil Blessing

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, M/M, Winter Veil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: When Anduin learns that the Stormwind priests neglected to bring Saurfang a Winter Veil charity gift, the king resolves to go and make matters right.
Relationships: Varok Saurfang/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59
Collections: World of Warcraft Gift Exchange 2019





	A Winter Veil Blessing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/gifts).



> I intended to make this 'blessing' a...uh, happy ending of a different sort, but then they started being angsty. I'm sorry! I hope you enjoy it, anyways!
> 
> Happy Winter Veil, and thank you for bringing this ship to life! <3

Anduin’s leather boots thudded against the stone stairs as he took them two at a time. The hollow sound lingered in the shadows and quivered like the torches marking his passage into the lowest level of the Stockades. After a few more steps, he arrived at level ground. He allowed himself only a moment to clutch the end of the railing with one hand, jostling the package in his arms with the other, and drawing in a breath as he willed his knee to stop aching. 

The corridor yawned before him like a maw. Beyond the torches, there was only whatever slivers of moonlight manages to pass through the grates over his head. 

Nevertheless, he straightened and hugged the bundle to his chest. Resolute as he was, he managed to keep his breath steady even though the dank air left a bitter taste on his tongue. 

Passing cell after bolted cell, he felt venomous eyes materialize from the darkness to study him from all sides. He bowed his head slightly, nodding, and thanking the Light no one seemed to recognize him with his hood pulled low over his brow. It wouldn’t be long until he reached his destination. As long as no one started cajoling or calling his name, he would make it. Just a few more cells, and then—

He rounded the corner. The alcove before him was even darker than the main hallway, and silent: so silent. No keen-eyed stare came to face him down now. All he could see through the slats of this cell was darkness, striped by a single moonbeam trickling in from a grate to the left of the bed. 

Anduin finally pushed back his hood and shook out his golden hair. He reached into his pocket with his free hand and extracted a small, iron key which fit easily into the lock. He gave it a turn; iron scraped against iron as the bolt holding the door closed withdrew. After pausing for a moment to collect himself, the king gave the door a nudge, applying just enough force to crack it and slip over the threshold.

It wasn’t until after he’d stepped in and shut the door firmly behind him that he dared make a sound: “Saurfang?”

With the package clutched tight against his chest, he turned to face the cot in the middle of the cell. A lone orc sat on the edge, neither acknowledging the king’s entrance nor the sound of his own name. He instead faced the wall, head bowed, and hands clenched together between his knees. Moonlight shone on his white braids, but his eyes remained veiled in shadows.

The orc’s motionless state and the imposing figure he cut should have been enough to make Anduin rethink his plan, but instead it just strengthened his resolve. The High Overlord’s grief and despair was almost palpable in the thick, musky air. If anyone needed the Light’s blessing, it was Varok Saurfang, and Anduin intended to give it to him.

There had long been a Winter Veil tradition among the Stormwind clergy of bringing gifts and blessings to the Stockades’ many inmates. As a child, Anduin used to beg to take part in the collection process, urging his father and Bolvar to let him tie up bundles and watch the priests carry them into the prison. He had never been allowed to distribute the gifts himself, of course, but that hadn’t deterred his enthusiasm. 

On the contrary, imagining alone had filled his heart with hope. The thought of thieves and political prisoners alike settling down to undo their twine-wrapped gifts had quickly drifted to prayers for their reform and their swift return to civilian life. 

One of the few benefits of being king (at least in Anduin’s eyes) was the proactive role he could finally take in the ceremony, choosing what each package would contain and allotting a generous portion of the crown’s holiday fund to supplementing the laity’s contributions. It also allowed him a rare glimpse into the clergy’s ledger and, in particular, the checklist of recipients. 

And it was there he had noticed a stunning omission that made his heart clench in his chest.

Even thinking about it now made his blood start to race. His jaw clenched, and anger—so rare for the mild-mannered king—started to gnaw at the pit of his stomach. He refused to let it show, however. Instead, he let the rush strengthen his stance and tighten his grip on the fine blanket wrapped in his arms. 

He cleared his throat, and tried again, this time stepping forward until he passed into the moonlight: “High Overlord? May I approach?”

This time, the orc turned his head. A low growl escaped him, but, as always, it lacked any kind of threat. Instead it sounded hollow, maybe even resigned. 

Anduin didn’t withdraw, rather waiting and giving the orc space to reply. When he didn’t, the king tried his voice again. It came out a bit higher and louder than before:

“I’ve brought you a present for Winter Veil. I’m sorry the priests missed your cell. I’m not sure what they were thinking, but in any case—”

“So that was what that was about?”

“Yes, and I apologize, Anduin hurried to reply, wasting no time in his clarification, “Please do not let their actions reflect on this city, or my own stance on our affairs—”

“I heard them” was all Saurfang said at first. His tone was indifferent, so detached that it caught Anduin off guard. Their eyes met, and suddenly Anduin’s cheeks grew hot. He had been so quick to make so much out of this affair, but the orc looked…nonplussed, unfazed. 

The king didn’t know what to do. Shifting his weight and tightening his grip on the package, he tried to explain, again, “It’s a tradition. Every year they bring gifts to the Stockades. But they omitted your name. I don’t know why. I have my suspicions, but it was foolish and unfair of them to do so, especially when you have done nothing but cooperate with us since the Battle of Lordaeron.”

The orc didn’t argue with him, but he didn’t acquiesce to the apology, either. He didn’t seem offended—Anduin would have _preferred_ offended, honestly, because at least he could make sense of that. It was the coldness, colder than the darkest night of the year, that was particularly hard to swallow. 

It was the same stoic despair he had felt every time he had tried to reach out to him in the past, and as his naivety started to wane, Anduin could finally admit to himself that he had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with the clergy’s bias. 

Nevertheless, he continued to clutch the blanket to his heart like he clung to the last rays of light passing through the grate to their left.

Softly, and a bit tentatively, he took another step in the orc’s direction. “In any case, I’m sorry,” he tried one last time, “And whether you care about it or not, it’s a matter of hospitality. You are under my charge, and I will see that you are treated fairly.”

The mention of hospitality seemed to have the desired effect. Saurfang lifted his head and straightened, then turned to face Anduin more fully. His gaze moved from the king’s face to the package, then down to his dark leather boots, before settling on the beam of white light striping the cobblestone floor. When he spoke, it was again in a growl, but one louder and clearer than the sound he’d let out before:

“I don’t need it. Take it to someone who does.” 

“That isn’t the point,” Anduin pointed out, swallowing, and taking another step. He passed through the light, then stopped a few inches from the edge of the cot, with his shoulders squared to the orc’s. Now close enough to hear his breath and sense the heat of his body, Anduin felt his pulse quicken once more.

Arms shaking slightly, he thrust out the gift, and waited for Saurfang to take it. Again, the orc refused, “Give it to someone who needs it. Your poor. Your homeless—” 

Anduin opened his mouth to cut in, but Saurfang didn’t give him the chance.

“—Teldrassil’s refugees and the orphans of the Fourth War. I know you are housing them here in your city.”

Anduin’s heart clenched in his chest. He sank down until his knees hit the cobblestone floor. He didn’t realize how quickly he’d fell nor what a predicament he had put himself in until he felt a jolt of pain shoot up his thigh. In that moment, all he knew was that he wanted to meet Saurfang’s gaze.

He looked up, and, before Saurfang could protest, placed the bundle on the bed beside him. The orc’s eyes strayed towards it before settling on Anduin’s own. Their keenness and intensity made the king feel even more awkward about the submissive position he’d put himself in, but to rise again would make him look even less dignified, and he knew that, too. 

So instead of rising, he swallowed, and followed his first impulse. “I want you to have it,” he enunciated every sound, like each held a meaning of its own, “Please. I brought it for you.”

The orc’s eyes widened slightly, but his lips remained set in a line. Not knowing where else to look, Anduin studied them: the way they tightened around his protruding tusks, taut with a frown that never seemed to leave Varok’s face. By the time the king tore his gaze away and managed to make eye contact once more, it was with a face again lined with resignation. The light to his left made the orc look even graver, leaving those lines etched like scars on his weathered green skin. 

Saurfang’s momentary, tempered surprise had been clearer, more visceral, but it was his gloom that threatened to become infectious. 

Shaking his head, Anduin directed a silent prayer to the Light. He had to remember why he’d come and to regain that hope he had clung to—no matter how increasingly naïve it made him feel. He furrowed his brow and reached over Saurfang’s knee to the gift he’d set to the side. His fingers closed around the twine and undid the bow. At least that gave him something to focus on beyond the feeling of kneeling in the High Overlord’s shadow. 

The gesture seemed to work. Just as the blanket fell open, Saurfang finally paid it more than a glance. Anduin followed his gaze down to it and strained up onto his knees so he could better reach around to unpack it. 

Although his hands were still shaking, the king managed to smooth out the soft blue knit and lay out the assortment of gifts where he knew Saurfang could see them without shifting his weight. First came the small pack of crackers, then cheese from Elling Trias’ shop, and then finally a small silver flask of whiskey he had managed to pilfer from the kitchens.

It wasn’t the Stockades’ standard fare, nor was it what Saurfang would have received from the priests had they not passed over his cell, but Anduin had only had his own possessions at his disposal when he had hastily thrown together the package. 

Hoping the orc wouldn’t realize as much, he withdrew his hand. For a moment, nobody moved, but then Saurfang’s own fingers reached down to rest where Anduin’s once had been. They traced along the blanket’s trimmed edge, then rubbed the corner between forefinger and thumb, before closing around the smooth silver flask resting a few inches inward.

Anduin’s stomach clenched, but then, after he paused for an inhale, that tightness started to unfurl. It would have been easier to calm himself had Saurfang just _said something_ , but at least he seemed to have given up trying to reject it. 

Keenly aware of the sound of his own breath as it billowed like fog in the space between them, Anduin waited and folded his hands together in his lap. The moments seemed to stretch on, until Saurfang turned back to face him, his braids swaying with the force of the sudden gesture. 

“This is what your priests bring to the prison?”

The curious tone of his voice caught Anduin off guard. Had it been asked differently, he might have tensed, but it was so transparent it made him smile. He opened his mouth and explained with far less strain than before, “Well, not exactly, but I didn’t think you wanted a book of human prayers. If I’m not mistaken, your people enjoy drinking whiskey?”

“We do,” Saurfang nodded. He sounded quite serious about it, but at least, Anduin couldn’t help but note, he didn’t sound as depressed. The king had to consider that a kind of win.

“And cheese?” He prompted, to which the orc nodded once more. Satisfied, the human sank back to sit on his heels, relieving some of the pressure from his overstressed knee. 

When Anduin spoke again, he no longer felt like he had to force air around a lump in his throat. “The crackers are for the cheese. I couldn’t bring you a knife for it, I—” Briefly breaking eye contact, Anduin felt his sheepishness threaten to take hold once more. He fought through it, swallowing, and willing his voice to remain at the same pitch as he admitted—

“Well, honestly, it was for your safety, but the brie is soft, and you should be able to just—”

“—Yes, I understand.”

“Okay,” the king nodded, a little too quickly, “I’m glad.”

With that, they lapsed into a momentary, and almost _comfortable,_ silence. The cold cobblestone and the ache in Anduin’s leg was a distant thought as he paused in the space between Saurfang’s bent knees. Seated there, it was easy to look—really look—into the orc’s small brown eyes.

Again, Anduin found himself studying the line of his lower lip, which had relaxed into a more natural curve. They had never sat this close before, and even in the shadows, the human found himself noticing details he’d never taken in before. His gaze moved from the ring around his left tusk to the white lines striping his face. Unlike the silver white of his hair, the ashes were stark, and as pale as bone. 

Saurfang shifted his weight, and his braids quivered against his chest. Anduin’s eyes strayed down to their tips, watching them sway in a tiny circle. It wasn’t until Saurfang cleared his throat that Anduin caught himself staring and wrenched his eyes back up to look at the orc’s half-parted lips.

“There is something else the priests do,” he admitted. Maybe it was the flash of embarrassment he felt that emboldened his tongue, but once he realized what he was saying it was too late to stop. He looked into Saurfang’s eyes and explained, “There’s usually a blessing. I can perform it, too, if you’d like. I know your people don’t often follow the Light, but I am willing…”

And eager, and hopeful, and desperate to chase away the shadows that seem to cling to your shoulders, Anduin wanted to go on, but even he knew better than to speak so boldly. He decided to leave the rest unsaid, instead giving the orc a chance to reply. 

It took a moment, and a long look down at Anduin’s face, before Saurfang answered in a gruff voice, “If you wish. I do not know your customs, but I am not going to stop you.”

It wasn’t much, but…it was something. Anduin was ready to take it.

In all the years he had imagined descending into the bowels of the prison to assist in the yearly blessing, Anduin had never, of course, imagined it playing out like this. He had pictured every reaction, from joy and redemption to resistance, and cast a the faceless horde of _villains_ and petty thieves he thought he might find himself seated across from.

Yet Saurfang was none of those things; it was hard to put the orc into words, but Anduin knew how he felt seated before him and knew what kind of resolution he hoped to bring. Straining once more onto his knees and resting one hand against Saurfang’s thigh to steady himself, he pressed his palm against his forehead and reached in, closing his eyes, and searching for something to take hold of. 

But at first, what he found there felt like his dank, basement cell: empty and with no moonbeams to stripe its floor. The faint smell of musk seemed to swell and choke out any kind of life. It was as if it were smoke pouring from smoldering wood, or a funeral pyre casting its ashes up into the sky. 

It was hard not to cough, but Anduin fought through the thickness, knowing full well that it was only a feeling made manifest. He tightened his grip on Saurfang’s thigh with one hand, and with the other gently templed his fingers until the tips pressed firm against the orc’s thick skin. Coarse grey hairs tickled Anduin’s knuckles, but he didn’t take the time to brush them back. Instead he leaned closer and reached into him once more.

This time Anduin found a light, but it was cold and devoid of meaning. It felt like snow rawing his cheeks, leaving his eyes to sting and leak tears onto his face. Thankfully, he didn’t realize at first that the tears gathering under his lashes were real. He furrowed his brow, pressed his lips in a line, and persisted, scrambling to find a break from the chill.

He had all but given up, but then he caught a glimmer of _something._ It started faint like the halo surrounding a bonfire in the distance on a late summer night, but then it swelled and burst across the sky in shades of red and orange. 

As it rose, it warmed the tear streaks on Anduin’s face, before casting its glow through the field that now seemed to sway around him. The wheat glimmered and glowed in golden hues. There was calm and a peace that reached down into Anduin’s core and took hold of the Light he had summoned to assist his search.

They joined together—sun and Light, candles and shimmering fields. Anduin drew in a breath, and when he exhaled, he felt Saurfang breathe it in. Contentment to joy, and joy to ecstasy: it was an ebb and flow that seemed to bind them together. 

It burned, then shimmered, then waned, and when Anduin removed his hand, it was to rest his own forehead where his palm had last been. 

Saurfang drew in another breath. The exhale that followed was warm against Anduin’s tearstained cheeks. The king closed his eyes, and then, leaning in, brushed their mouths gently together. It was an unconscious gesture at first, but when he felt the orc’s full lower lip against his, he couldn’t help but press in to deepen the contact.

His own lips parted. The hand he had rested against Saurfang’s upper thigh tightened its grip, and his other hand fell to grip the blanket spread out on the cot beside Saurfang’s hip.

The soft, tightly knit fabric proved a fitting contrast to the calloused palm that reached down to cup Anduin’s own wet cheek. 

“Anduin,” the orc growled, low against his lips. It wasn’t a warning, or even a question. It was a statement, simple, and far too informal, but it only drew the king closer. 

“Varok,” he found himself murmuring in response. Leaning in for another kiss, Anduin closed his eyes and blinked away the last of his tears. A calloused thumb swiped across the curve of his cheekbone even as fingers slipped up into his hair. 

He tilted his head, parted his lips, and let out a ragged sigh. The orc’s tusk pressed square against his jaw, rubbing and teasing his skin, its metal ring a cool contrast to the heat of the orc’s thick, wet tongue. 

Caught up in the kiss as he was, Anduin didn’t notice Saurfang had removed one hand from his hair until he felt it gripping the side of his waist. It drew him in closer, and he yielded to it, not stopping until his chest pressed between Saurfang’s legs. The position might have flustered him— _should_ have flustered him—at any other time, but the light he had summoned moments before chased back the nerves that threatened to nag or restrain him. 

Instead, in their place, he found warmth: his, and Saurfang’s. It seemed to start in the pit of Anduin’s chest and extend out into the large arms that encircled him. Looking up into his eyes, the priest nodded, and then, deliberately and with greater clarity, reached up to touch the High Overlord’s face. 

His fingers moved from his thick, coarse hair, down to a braid, and then, after leaving the tip, back up to cradle the coarse grey plait. Their lips met again, and they whispered, with a whisper that seemed to pass from one to the other, but in words that proved to be meaningless. 

They embraced again. Anduin’s chest rose and fell, and on either side of his neck, the orc’s braids quivered and swayed. They stayed until the moonlight to their left started to fade and yield to the grey of a winter morning, but entwined as they were, with Saurfang’s face pressed against Anduin’s cheek and Anduin’s fingers gently cupping his braid, it felt like their bodies had melded together and gotten lost in a golden field beneath an even golder sky.


End file.
